#Lafayette Library

[garadinervi]

«In memoriam of the Kent Four and Jackson Two» ― Donald Drumm, Bridge Over Troubled Waters, Bowling Green State University, Bowling Green, OH, 1970 (memorial inscription)

Kent State University, Kent, OH, May 4, 1970 / 2025

Allison Beth Krause (April 23, 1951 – May 4, 1970), student Jeffrey Glenn Miller (March 28, 1950 – May 4, 1970), student Sandra Lee Scheuer (August 11, 1949 – May 4, 1970), student William Knox Schroeder (July 20, 1950 – May 4, 1970), student Nine students wounded: Alan Michael Canfora, John R. Cleary, Thomas Mark Grace, Dean R. Kahler, Joseph Lewis Jr., Donald Scott Mackenzie, James Dennis Russell, Robert Follis Stamps, Douglas Alan Wrentmore

Jackson State College, Jackson, MS, May 15, 1970 / 2025

Phillip Lafayette Gibbs, (September 1, 1948 – May 15, 1970), student James Earl Green, (December 19, 1952 – May 15, 1970), student at Jim Hill High School (walking down the street on his way home from work)

May 4 Memorials, Special Collections and Archives, Kent State University Libraries, Kent State University, Kent, OH

«A 14-foot Don Drumm sculpture on the Kent State University campus, in the line of fire at the time of the shootings on May 4, 1970, was pierced by a bullet. Drumm, who was called in during the investigation to help verify the direction from which the shot was fired, decided that the damaged sculpture should not be repaired, and that summer he built a memorial at Bowling Green State University, using the same metal that he had used for the Kent piece. The new work was titled 'Bridge Over Troubled Waters'.»

Plus: The 'Bridge Over Troubled Waters' Memorial, by John King and Justin Kindelt, «Bowling Green Music & Cultural History Walking Tour», 2020

(Art: © Donald Drumm)

[john-laurens]

Philadelphia May 17th 1780 Dear Sir, I embrace the earliest & best opportunity of acknowledging the receipt of yours, dated, Wilmington 21st April, & need not, I trust, express how much I join with you in anxious expectation of hearing the fate of our Capital, & the brave men within it.  I am, however, not without my hopes, & am convinced, that if Sir Henry has not succeeded before this time, he never will.  The Garrison & inhabitants of New York have been thrown into the greatest confusion by news received from Europe, repeated councils of war have been held, repeated expresses sent off to Clinton, & the citizens, as well as the military, are called out to fatigue duty; they are erecting works between the two rivers, and a battery at the lookout on Staten Island, whilst a number of vessels have been prepared, & are ready to be sunk, with a view of obstructing the entrance of the harbor.  These facts, joined to the information we have received from Europe, lend us to expect the appearance of a friendly force.  I thought it of the greatest consequence that our friends in Carolina should be immediately made acquainted with our expectations in this matter, as it may be attended with no small influence upon their councils.  As my Colleague Matthews is on a committee at Camp, I am deprived of his advice with respect to that part of your letter, which hints the expediency of transmitting to Mr. Adams, a similar commission, to that which you now hold, but have thought it best upon reflection not to say mention any thing about the matter, answering in general terms to all enquiries, that you were at Wilmington, & waiting for a safe opportunity to embark.  Should we be so unfortunate as to lose Charles Town, it will not then be too late to transmit a commission to Mr. Adams, but should our enemies be disappointed, you will in that case, I flatter myself, my dear Sir, be prevailed upon to make the attempt, & may do it with a far greater prospect of success, if not embarrassed with the interference of another Person._ We have had quires of paper from our Ministers abroad, but they contain little else but extracts from French & English Newspapers, except on one head which I have alluded to in the other page of this letter, & which prudence forbids my discussing on paper._ Should any thing material take place, I should esteem it a particular favor to hear from you, & will endeavor to deserve it, by giving every degree of information from this quarter. I am, dear Sir, With the greatest respect & esteem, Your most obdnt & hum. Servant, F. Kinloch. The Marquis de la Fayette is arrived, & has, I believe, some information to communicate. Governor Morris had the misfortune, to be thrown out of his Phaeton the other day, & has lost his leg by amputation. I enclose the last Newspapers, which I beg you would be so kind as to forward to the Governor.

Francis Kinloch to Henry Laurens, in a letter dated May 17, 1780. Transcribed from the copy held at the Huntington Library.

This is a fairly short letter, but there's so much going on!

Francis and Henry directly interacted several times throughout their lives, but this may be the only surviving letter between the two.

"acknowledging the receipt of yours, dated, Wilmington 21st April" - Letter not found. Henry Laurens was in Wilmington, NC at this time and was looking to secure passage to the Netherlands.

"I join with you in anxious expectation of hearing the fate of our Capital, & the brave men within it.  I am, however, not without my hopes, & am convinced, that if Sir Henry has not succeeded before this time, he never will." - Kinloch was referring to Sir Henry Clinton's siege on Charleston, SC, which lasted for three months. Despite Kinloch's optimism, General Benjamin Lincoln had already surrendered to the British on May 12, 1780. Kinloch was serving on the Continental Congress in Philadelphia at the time, so the news had not yet reached him.

"These facts, joined to the information we have received from Europe, lend us to expect the appearance of a friendly force." - This and other references to news from Europe are likely a reference to reinforcements arriving from France. The comte de Rochambeau and 5,500 men set sail for America in May 1780.

"which hints the expediency of transmitting to Mr. Adams, a similar commission, to that which you now hold" - In the fall of 1779, Congress had named Henry Laurens as minister to the Netherlands in hopes of securing a treaty and a loan with the country. Henry would never make it to the Netherlands - his ship was intercepted by a British frigate, and he was imprisoned in the Tower of London. John Adams later served as envoy to the Netherlands during 1780-1782.

"The Marquis de la Fayette is arrived, & has, I believe, some information to communicate." - A Lafayette mention! Lafayette had recently traveled to France to secure additional aid for the American cause, and he recently returned to America with news of the impending support.

"Governor Morris had the misfortune, to be thrown out of his Phaeton the other day, & has lost his leg by amputation." - An iconic story. I did not have "Francis Kinloch writes to Henry Laurens about Gouverneur Morris's amputated leg" on my 1780 bingo card, yet here we are.

[macaron-n-cheese]

I NEVER POSTED THIS

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by William & Mary Libraries (@wmlibraries)

Lafayette x Swem Library promotion! Lafayette's honorary degree from William & Mary (granted upon his visiting tour in 1824) is being housed at William & Mary's Swem library for the first time in over 200 years to celebrate the bicentennial of Lafayette's 2024-2025 tour of the US! Thank you Mark Schneider for making this video, I got more likes on my repost than the actual video on the student social media 💔

Voila!

Bonus! They are celebrating in Yorktown, too!

@rosemeriwether @hiidkwhatimdoing7525 Lafayette's honorary degree is being housed in Seem library if you have time to see! :)

[princetonarchives]

"While the name of this city recalls important military remembrance, it is also connected with that of the illustrious college which in diffusing knowledge and liberal sentiments, has greatly contributed to turn those successes to the advantage of public liberty. Your library had been destroyed, but your principles were printed in the hearts of American patriots."

--Marie Jean Paul Joseph Roche Yves Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette, while on Princeton's campus to accept an honorary L.L.D., September 25, 1824

[princessofmanyfaces]

Welcome to the Dark Side

A 3 star read for me | Okay so I DNF'd the first book because I couldn't get through it. Cress and King gave me the cringies

Book two was so much better. It took me weeks to get to 19% in the first book (where I DNF'd) and it took me a few hours to get there with Welcome to the dark side and I finished it like a day later.

Although it made me extreme uncomfortable when Zeus was too focused on Lou being young and a minor.

Like

“Ten years waitin’ for you to grow up so I could do this.”

Sir, ten years ago she was 7 🤡

But other than that, it was a fine read

[ntzsche9]

I started something so similar to this prompt that would never have otherwise seen the light of day! But they're brother-wanderers, and the peril was already delt with. Based on a location from Fallout 4, with two of my OCs from Bad Blood.

Lafayette felt uneasy. The smell of explosives, blood and burning wood still hung in the air, but Luvell had tossed down his rifle and his pack and was scrambling in and out of the piles of books pouring from overturned shelves like a mole rat.

Downtown Boston was never quiet, but the sound of all the explosives and gunfire was sure to draw someone to what remained of the super mutant camp outside the Library. There were plenty of mutie camps around, and they could be summoning a whole family of them to avenge their cousins. Lafayette kept his own rifle at a low ready, pacing the musty halls and carefully listening for anything coming from the floor below. 

The building was strange, and massive, kind of like a museum but much more open. Infinitely more boring. There weren’t displays of oddly dressed mannequins or robots offering tours of their run-down facilities. Only the occasional poster with some cheesy quip about the power and joys of reading. And books. Rooms and rooms with rows and rows of fucking massive bookshelves crammed with books so old many had molded together. Lafayette didn't understand how there was enough shit in the world, even the old world, to write this many books about it all. Most were torn up, swollen from decades of rain seeping through the cracks in the vaulted ceiling above, but there were still so many legible books that even if his quick-reading brother started now, he would die of old age before he could finish them all.

He lost Luvell for a while, but eventually found him again in a cavern of tilted bookcases, sitting cross-legged on the floor and surrounded by multiple stacks of books he had organized in some bizarre order. Luvell had grown solemn in his late teens, pensive and closed off, but when he looked up at Lafayette with a massive grin, all Lafayette saw was the enthusiastic little kid he used to be.

“Look at this!” he said, launching into a rambling lecture about underground power grids and fission energy. Lafayette didn’t have the first clue what the fuck he was talking about, but he smiled down at him anyway, just happy to see him so lit up. That alone was worth all the fuckery it took to get in here.

“And these are for you!” Luvell added, pushing a stack with his foot toward him. The books and magazines were noticeably smaller than some of the books stacked in the other piles, but the tower reached his knee nonetheless.

“Bro we are not lugging this all the way home.”

“If we could drag Dad across the Commonwealth on a modified wheelbarrow, we can bring home a few books," he snapped. Lafayette looked sharply up at him, but his shock quickly subsided into laughter. Luvell wasn’t even joking, side-eyeing Lafayette with a calculative look, which made it that much funnier. “We gotta at least bring home the best ones,” he muttered.

“We’ll bring home the best ones,” Lafayette assured him.

“And stash all the other ones for the next few trips.”

“Next few trips!?”

“Yes! Absolutely! We gotta keep coming back to make sure this place is clear. I’ve been thinking about setting up another mine course when we leave, but I don’t want anyone who actually wants to read the books getting hurt.”

“Luvie this place has sat here for two hundred years, practically untouched." That was just an assumption. They had both seen the withered remains of the library's last guests, but it seemed to have been a very long time ago. "No one gives a shit like you do. It’ll be fine.”

“Ugh, you just don’t get it,” Luvell sighed. He picked up the first book in the pile and dropped it into Lafayette’s lap none too gently. 

….

Lafayette gave up waiting for him. He set up their bedrolls in the atrium, where very few of the glass panes remained, affording them a great view of the clear, starry sky above. The day had been exhausting, and his nerves were still raw, but Lafayette managed to fall asleep for a few hours before he heard Luvell come down the stairs. 

He groaned at the massive pile of books he set down beside his bedroll. "There is no fuckin’ way we can bring all this home. Where would we even put them? Most the houses in Sanctuary Hills leak worse than this place and it's still fucked most of them up."

“I wish we could make an actual settlement here,” he sighed, sitting down beside him. He rubbed his eyes, just as exhausted as Lafayette.

“You could,” Lafayette offered, tone changing at the look on his younger brother’s face. “People have set up in places like this. If it weren’t for all the radiation in town, that museum in Covington would have been converted into something.”

“Build real defenses in the front." Luvell continued, staring thoughtfully up through the few fogged panes of the atrium ceiling, where a waxing moon glowed cheerfully down on them. "A whole bunch of turrets around the place. Like Covenant. But also we’d have some gardens, here and outside. Maybe even livestock, though we would have to be more of a trade hub than a fully self-sufficient town.”

“There’s a whole bunch of offices that families could convert into homes. Who would you let it?”

“I mean, anyone who wanted to learn something. Maybe even teach folks to read. There’s a kid's section with tons of easy books.”

“Bunch of brainiacs, then. Might as well run a big-ass school.”

“Sure, but not just that. We would be able to barter with information. Lafayette, I don’t think you realize how much is here. How important this all is. People can learn new trades from the books here. They can learn computer systems and robotics, or chemistry and the best ways to make new medicine, learn about what resources are just laying around in the Commonwealth still and how we could best use them. Seriously, so many problems can be solved if people just understood things better and could learn better ways to handle them.”

“What would you call your town?”

“It’s not my town.”

“Yes it is. The intercom you hacked outside said you're the mayor. Mayor Luvell Daveriel Schneider. Your dads are gonna be so fuckin' proud.”

Luvell laughed, shaking his head as he thought for a moment. "Maybe Copeland? Like the subway station? No, no, it should just be called 'the Library'."

"Fuck, you are boring."

"You got a suggestion?"

"The Boston Public Mold-brary, the Rotting City of All-the-Knowledge."

"See, this is why you're never in charge of naming things"

….

He had been tiredly staring at the shadows, losing a battle with sleep, when he swore he could hear voices from downstairs. He was instantly awake, turning toward the open doors and straining to hear anything while hoping he was just tired.

No. Voices. They had company.

“Wake up,” he whispered, gently slapping Luvell in the cheeks and forehead before placing a finger over his mouth. Luvell slapped him back, then carefully sat up.

Writing promt

In a decaying, post-apocalyptic world, a lone wanderer stumbles upon a hidden library that holds the key to humanity's forgotten history, but accessing its knowledge comes at a perilous price.

[archivaltrigger]

“Because the US government was not acting on mass shootings, we directly attacked a trait Americans are most known for: their pride in their country. Change the Ref created the Shamecards, a postcard collection designed to demand gun law reform from Congress. Subverting the traditional greeting cards that depict each city’s landmarks, ours show what cities are becoming known for.”

shamecards.org

There is 54 cards total representing:

Annapolis — Maryland: Capital Gazette Shooting

Atlanta — Georgia: Day Trading Firm Shootings

Benton — Kentucky: Marshall County High School Shooting

Bethel — Alaska: Regional High School Shooting

Binghamton — New York: Binghamton Shooting

Blacksburg — Virginia: Virginia Tech Massacre

Camden – New Jersey: Walk of Death Massacre

Charleston — South Carolina: Charleston Church Shooting

Charlotte — North Carolina: 2019 University Shooting

Cheyenne — Wyoming: Senior Home Shooting

Chicago — Illinois: Medical Center Shooting

Clovis — New Mexico: Clovis Library Shooting

Columbine — Colorado: Columbine

Dayton — Ohio: Dayton Shooting

Edmond — Oklahoma: Post Office Shooting

El Paso — Texas: El Paso Shooting

Ennis — Montana: Madison County Shooting

Essex Junction — Vermont: Essex Elementary School Shooting

Geneva — Alabama: Geneva County Massacre.

Grand Forks — North Dakota: Grand Forks Shooting

Hesston — Kansas: Hesston Shooting

Honolulu — Hawaii: First Hawaiian Mass Shooting

Huntington — West Virginia: New Year's Eve Shooting

Indianapolis — Indiana: Hamilton Avenue Murders

Iowa City — Iowa: University Shooting

Jonesboro — Arkansas: Middle School Massacre

Kalamazoo — Michigan: Kalamazoo Shooting

Lafayette — Louisana: Lafayette Shooting

Las Vegas — Nevada: Las Vegas Strip Shooting

Madison — Maine: Madison Rampage

Meridian — Mississippi: Meridian Company Shooting

Moscow — Idaho: Moscow Rampage

Nashville — Tennessee: Nashville Waffle House shooting

Newtown — Connecticut: Sandy Hook Elementary School Shooting

Omaha — Nebraska: Westroads Mall shooting

Orlando — Florida: Pulse Nightclub Shooting

Parkland — Florida: Parkland School Shooting

Pelham — New Hampshire: Wedding Shooting

Pittsburgh — Pennsylvania: Pittsburgh Synagogue Shooting

Prices Corner — Delaware: Delaware Shooting

Red Lake — Minnesota: Indian Reservation Shooting

Roseburg — Oregon: Umpqua Community Collage Shooting

Salt Lake City — Utah: Salt Lake City Mall Shooting

San Diego — California: San Ysidro Massacre

Santa Fe — Texas: Santa Fe School Shooting

Schofield — Wisconsin: Marathon County Shooting

Seattle — Washington: Capitol Hill Massacre

Sisseton — South Dakota: Sisseton Massacre

St. Louis — Missouri: Power Plant Shooting

Sutherland Springs — Texas: Sutherland Springs Church Shooting

Tucson — Arizona: Tocson Shooting

Wakefield — Massachusetts: Tech Company Massacre

Washington — D.C.: Navy Yard Shooting

Westerly — Rhode Island: Assisted-Living Complex Rampage

[fayes-fics]

When The World Is Free: Chapter 2 -  La Valse de Paris

MASTERPOST PREV | NEXT

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, WW2 AU.

Warnings: none

Word Count: 1.7k

AuthorsNote: Chapter 2 of new multi-chapter fic based on a request by the lovely @amillcitygirl! Please see the masterpost for a synopsis of this story. This details our reader settling into Paris and the outbreak of war. Benedict turns up next chapter. Thanks to @colettebronte for beta reading. Enjoy! <3

Paris, September 1939

Your first few weeks in Paris are a delightful blur. 

Spending late summer exploring the city - with Solène as your occasional guide and Eloise when she is not at work. You soak up every moment, from the windswept magnificence of standing atop the Eiffel Tower, your words being stolen by the wind, to the monastic silence of the Louvre on a quiet Monday morning. And everything in between - from Notre Dame's atmospheric incense-laden gothic darkness to the airy, resplendent glass dome of Galeries Lafayette that glitters like a prismatic jewel even on cloudy days. 

But perhaps your favourites are the little slices of city life: sitting watching the world go by at a corner cafe, the crunch and warm, pillowy softness of the first bite of freshly baked baguette as you wander back from the boulangerie, the lingering fragrance of the rose garden at the Château de Bagatelle in Bois de Boulogne... It's all pieces of a puzzle that fill your heart in ways that make your life before now seem drab, almost in black and white, like a photograph.

You have written to Stanley once since you arrived, effusive in your praise, a homily to your new home, however temporary. While proclaiming his happiness for you, his response tempered, a touch dismissive of your wonderment. I can scarcely believe any city could truly live up to the praise you so readily heap upon Paris, my love, he wrote back. That was a week ago, and your urge to reply has been muted. 

It's during an idle lunchtime by the Seine, eating a sandwich as you dangle your feet over the river wall, that you genuinely feel a local. An elderly French couple, likely visiting from the provinces, approaches you and asks you for directions to the Musée de l'Homme. Part of you aglow they think you sophisticated enough to look Parisian, and French. And you are able to help them, giving them the information in French, not fluent but sufficient that they are surprised when you confess “je suis américaine”.

In your third week, you secure the art gallery job Eloise had seen posted. An opportunity to meet many new people, primarily British and American, who share your love of art of all persuasions. You spend many a happy hour answering questions and building your knowledge of art, not just in your gallery but across the city. Part of you is wistful to study the subject in even greater depth than the books you borrow in copious quantities from the library where Eloise works.

You grow so close to Eloise so quickly that it’s as if you have known her your whole life. A sense of kinship, a near familial bond. You know, on some instinctive level, she will always be a part of your life somehow. Your evenings are often spent in lounge bars together—venues awash with art deco splendour as you listen to jazz through a cigarette haze and flirt aimlessly with a carousel of handsome men. Life seems so full of potential, a hum in your very being.

“What do you think the purpose of life is, y/n?” Eloise sighs as she flops onto your bed after returning from one such decadent night out.

“Aaaand we are done with the brandy…” you declare, taking the bottle of Martell cognac from her grip and placing it pointedly on the dresser, your high-handed point only mildly undermined by your own unsteady gait.

You collapse down next to her, the intricate ceiling rose around your light fixture swirling slightly before your very eyes.

“Love?” you hazard in answer to her question.

“Boo! Cliché!” she jeers, elbowing you good-naturedly.

“I don’t just mean romantic love,” you protest, “the love of family… friends…”

“Ah, yes, family. Endlessly large family. Don’t suppose you want an extra sibling or two, do you? I could be persuaded to let a couple go,” she squints comically.

“Depends… can I have the artist?” you jest.

“You have to stop staring at that painting; it's getting weird,” she opines with her typical bluntness, “and no, you can’t. You know he’s my favourite,” she pouts.

“I think he’s my favourite too,” you opine over a stifled yawn, any embarrassment about being called out for your unbridled admiration overridden by the sleepy state your comfortable bed lulls you into.

“If you end up being attracted to my brother, I will have to disown you, you know,” she pats your hand drowsily.

“Hmm, good thing he’s so far away…” you trail off with a lazy giggle, eyes drooping heavily.

It’s the last words you exchange before you both fall asleep on your bed.

–

Perhaps, as with all things that are too good, the idyll is temporary. It's the news you wake up to that following morning, September 4th, which throws everything into uncertainty. Solène knocks on your door early with an uncharacteristically sombre expression, wordlessly handing you the morning paper and flicking on the wireless on your mantelpiece, the fine lines on her face deeper etched, furrowed with worry.

‘La Guerre!’ the headline screams from the newspaper. And the voice on the airwaves, your ear more attuned to the language now, details how Britain and France have jointly declared war against Germany for their invasion of Poland a few days prior.

At the sound of the radio, Eloise emerges from your room, blinking and hair asunder, a little delicate from your previous night's revelry. You sip coffee at a loss for what to think or do. It’s an odd cognitive dissonance when life at once seems identical but also changed by an invisible shape - an undercurrent of fear, of the unknown, a punch to the pit of your stomach that you don’t know how to acknowledge - even as you go through the motions of your daily routine and head to work.

By the evening you are more phlegmatic about the situation. Your spirit dampened, yes, but not crushed. You feel an immense sense of privilege that conflict is not yet at your doorstep, but equally knowing being in the capital city of a nation that just declared war against a neighbouring country is not exactly safe.

You and Eloise splash out on dinner at an upscale brassiere that night, one you have both passed and commented you’d love to dine in some time. Both of you seized by the unspoken “what if”, the previous reluctance to treat yourselves entirely absent.

Talk on all the tables around you as you dine - on heavenly butter-soft steak - is about the war. What it could mean for Paris, fear of another major European conflict so soon after the last, the economic concerns - the bite of the early 30s depression just relinquishing its hostile grip on the somewhat bruised denizens.

Afterwards, you wander the cobbled streets back to your apartment, arms looped, bellies full, occasionally staring up at the starry night sky in mostly contemplative, sober silence. It’s a beautiful evening, but something in the warm breeze feels melancholic.

When you open the door to your building, Solène is waiting, rocking on her heels.

“Eloise, a telegram has come for you!” she announces, shoving a piece of paper into her hand. “And a telephone call from England earlier,” she adds, gesturing to the black rotary phone outside her place—the only one in the building.

Eloise gives you a brief glance and then opens the message. You watch her eyes ping across the text before her shoulders slump.

“My mother,” she sighs in explanation, “it appears she is summoning me back home.”

“What?!” the selfish reflex of not wanting to be left alone is the first thing flaring in you.

“It’s not fair!” she whines in a flash of child-like defiance before continuing in a more subdued tone. “She is sending my brother to come get me. She doesn’t specify which, but seeing as Anthony is a Lieutenant General in the Army and has likely been called to Churchill’s side, I'm presuming Benedict,” Eloise surmises. 

Your thoughts instantly fly to that painting hanging in your apartment upstairs. A strange flutter under your ribs at the idea you could be about to meet its creator. Quickly followed by a wash of guilt that you could even focus on such a frivolous thing.

“What will I do without you?’’ You fret aloud, grasping her arm tighter.

“There was a call for you too, y/n,” Solène pipes up. “Your father wants you to exchange your return ticket for a sailing home as soon as possible,” she relays.

“But.. I just got here!” your lament as defiant as Eloise’s. A frustrating sense you are losing a fleeting opportunity you already hold so precious - like a new toy being ripped from the meaty fist of a truculent toddler.

“Mes amis, what can I say?” that trademark Gallic shrug seizing Solène’s shoulders. “While Paris is safe for now, we do not know how much longer that will hold true… it is likely best you return home. Perhaps this will be over in weeks, and you can return?”

You know your parents have paid your rent upfront for a whole year, likely similar for Eloise, your landlady not impacted financially by your leaving, merely a wish for you to enjoy your Parisian adventures.

As you unlock the door to your apartment and wander in, both of you sigh; the illumination from the Eiffel Tower that refracts upon your window pane just adds to your melancholia, a sight that before had never failed to warm your heart.

“When will your brother get here?” your inflection dull.

“Tomorrow, most likely. It only takes a couple of hours to cross the Channel, and as you know, the train ride from the coast is just a few more. I expect he’ll be waiting for me right here when I return from work,” her tone is just as flat as yours.

You want to ask if she will pack tonight, but you stop yourself, seeing the flame that usually burns so bright behind her blue eyes dimmed. Wordlessly, you draw closer and pull her into a firm hug.

“I will miss you like a sister,” she whispers into your hair, returning the embrace just as fiercely, “maybe moreso.”

You nod and band your arms tighter briefly before letting go, bone-deep exhaustion overtaking anything else you see in her mirrored stance.

The last thing that captures your eye as Eloise turns to her room is that painting of her childhood home and, strangely, how it feels closer now than ever before.

Benedict taglist: @foreverlonginguniverse @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @amygdtjhddzvb @sya-skies @balladynaaa

[jhoca]

I mentioned the American Philosophical Society (APS) in my last post - some of our favorite boys were Members! Laurens was elected in 1780 (Source: APS Member History)... Lafayette in 1781, Hamilton in 1791, Duponceau also in 1791, and so on.

I've listened to a few of their guest speaker talks while I was at work - the recordings are available on YouTube! I listened to Lunch at the Library: "Feeding Washington’s Army", with Ricardo Herrera (the attendees dined during the presentation) and Christina Snyder, Anti-Slavery Movements in the Colonial South.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

I like this idea- Cute 1875 fixer upper in Houma, Louisiana focuses on the original architectural features of the home. 3bds, 3ba, and only $146K. Due to requests for more less-expensive homes, I'm trying to find examples of what you can get for different prices and where they would be located.

It's so cute.

This front room is lovely.

Isn't this nice- built-in bookshelves with a window seat, and they left a portable fireplace, too. (I love when stuff conveys!)

Love the kitchen. They left a nice antique island. Nothing to really do in here.

Previous owner did some pretty stenciling. Love that.

Wow, detailed stairs. I would sand the globby paint to sharpen the detail.

Stairs are in great shape.

Nice. I even like the wallpaper.

Transoms that open and close.

Beautiful sconce.

How cute is this? They made a little library in a closet.

Wow, roomy vintage bath. Note how they "antiqued" the beadboard.

Very nice details.

Original flooring.

Not loving this bath, though.

Open bonus space on the uppermost floor.

Old, cement pineapple hospitality symbol.

The grounds need work.

But, the 69.52 x 116 ft. lot should clean up nicely. Cute little house for the price.

[john-laurens]

I've long been a supporter of the South Carolina Historical Society, but I'm particularly pleased to see that they are hosting speakers on queer history and posting about Pride Month on their social media channels in the current political climate. These might seem like small actions, but even the comments on the Facebook version of their Pride Month post show just how much these efforts are needed.

For those interested in John Laurens and other prominent South Carolinians, the SCHS has so much to offer! The SCHS has an extensive archive - you can visit in person, or you can request reproductions of materials (I've done both, and everyone I've worked with has been very helpful). They also have a plethora of digitized materials that you can access for free through the Lowcountry Digital Library! The SCHS was a sponsor of/contributor to the 16-volume The Papers of Henry Laurens collection, and the documents that contributed to this project are in the process of being digitized. I just learned that the SCHS has an LGBTQ history research guide, which even includes John Laurens! For those of you who've come to me looking for more information on Francis Kinloch but have no idea where to start, may I direct your attention to the Kinloch family history and genealogy research files held by the SCHS. There are so many family accounts in this collection (even I don't think I've read them all), and it gives unique insight into Kinloch that you aren't likely to find anywhere else. Those Henry Laurens and Marquis de Lafayette Carologue issues I've posted before? Also published by the SCHS! If you're local to or are visiting Charleston, you can also visit the SCHS museum (slight tangent but the SCHS museum building also hosts an 18th/19th century dining experience put on by culinary historian Mike Hebb - 11 out of 10, would recommend). Whatever your interest is, go learn about something new with the SCHS and show them your support!

[1264doghouse]

Stavin' Chain playing guitar and singing the ballad "Batson" accompanied by a musician on violin, Lafayette, Louisiana, June 1934, Alan Lomax Collection, Library of Congress.

[pomegranateplumes]

My painting is getting featured in an LGBTQIA+ art zine called Cher! The zines are free in local libraries and coffee shops around New Orleans, Baton Rouge, and Lafayette, Louisiana. 💖🌈🌠

[haliotropes]

Black Star (Rustin Cohle x OC)

7. I Am Gonna Grow Wings | Rated M

A/N: lots of internal thoughts of helplessness, on page mental break, mentions of parental death, mentions of suicide

₊˚ ✧.* ೃ ₊˚ ✧.* ೃ ₊˚ ✧.* ೃ ₊˚ ✧.* ೃ

BEEP BEEP BEEP, BEEP BEEP BEEP, BEEP BEEP BEEP.

Kenny rolls over, flops her hand around, accidentally knocks her phone off its receiver. It clanks to the floor and continues its cruel and persistent ringing. Groaning, Kenny leans over the side of the bed and gropes blindly before she finally grabs the phone, and holds it to her ear.

“Hello?” she asks groggily. It continues to ring until she remembers to press the “answer” button. She tries again. “Hello?”

“Kennedy, did I wake you?”

Kenny does everything in her power, and truly everything, so suppress the groan of annoyance that threatens to slip when she hears her father’s voice. She pulls one eye open and peeks at her alarm clock.

“No, it’s only six-thirteen in the morning, why wouldn’t I be awake?”

“It’s not an unreasonable hour-”

“Only kidding, Dad.” She presses the heel of her hand into her eyes. “What’s up?”

“I’d like to meet you for lunch today, catch up.”

“I have work.”

“I’m fairly certain it’s mandated by law that employees get time for lunch, don’t they?”

“Well, I got errands to run, too. Gotta get to the library or public records office-”

“I understand. Do what you can to avoid me.”

His voice isn’t tinged with the disappointment her gut always expects but never receives. Instead, it’s condescension, which is somehow worse. Probably because she’s selfish.

“Dad-”

“The truth is, there’s some delicate matters I feel are best discussed in person and I’d like to give you the courtesy.”

Ah, he’s trying to do her a favor by trapping her in some restaurant and spinning her wise anecdotes and words of warning and thinly veiled criticisms.

“Fine, Dad. Where and when?”

“Blue Saloon, 11:30.”

“Alright, I’ll be there.”

“Alright. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Kenny presses to hang up, drops her phone beside her on the bed where Froggy stirs, looks up at her. Kenny frowns at him.

“Be thankful you never knew your father.”

-

Kenny goes to the Journal first. Rushes into Doucet's office before anyone can trap her in conversation. When Doucet looks from his computer to her, his eyebrows shoot up.

“What's the occasion?” He asks, referencing the sweater and dress combo that Kenny is sporting. She's even tries to make her hair look nice, but one second in the mid morning humidity and her dark curls have poofed along her shoulders.

“Lunch with the commissioner,” she remarks. “Do we still have the Britannica Subscription? For online?”

Doucet definitely notices how she brushes past the subject, but he allows her to do so with nothing but a stern look.

“We should. What're you looking for?”

“A title. Might be a book but I thought I could look it up before I make a trip to the library.”

Doucet shrugs. “You could give it a try. I'm still not a hundred percent with the internet stuff.”

Kenny huffs. “As if I could even have a computer at my place. Thanks, Andrew.”

“Say ‘hey’ to your dad for me.”

“Funny.”

Kenny sits at her desk and boots up her computer. She had never really worked with one until she started working for the Journal. And not every journalist had a computer, either. She just would do some research from time to time…and play Trail to Oregon in her off hours.

Eventually, to the tune of whirrs and clicks from the computer, Kenny is able to start the online Britannica Encyclopedia. She types “The King in Yellow” into the search bar. Nothing.

Well. Whole lot of time wasted for nothing, there. So much for this new technology.

Kenny pushes herself from the desk and shouts to Doucet as she leaves.

“Heading to the library!”

-

The Lafayette Parish Library has always been something of a safe place for Kenny. It has been long understood that any child who is outcasted for the ways their minds work can, and usually will, take solace in books. Naturally, Kenny was never an exception to that. The first time she ran away after her mother's death, the library was where they found her. It's where they found her the third time, too.

Because of this attachment, Kenny had formed a relationship with the librarian, Mrs. Renault. She was a middle aged woman then, and an older woman now, with glasses that hung on beaded cords and a seemingly endless supply of complicatedly embroidered cardigans. Her black hair is graying now, but she still gives Kenny that same smile when she enters the building.

“Kenny-Ken. Keeping print media alive and well?”

“Well, one of us has gotta do it.”

Mrs. Renault laughs at her and smacks the circulation desk. “What do you need, honey?”

“I’m here because I'm hoping it's a book. The King in Yellow?”

Now on the job, Mrs. Renault is suddenly serious, looking past Kenny in deep thought.

“Alright. Author?”

“No clue.”

“Genre?”

Kenny shrugs her shoulders pathetically. “Again, I think it's the name of a book. I'm doing a favor for a friend.”

Mrs. Renault quirks up her brow.

“A friend?”

“You know, those people you have in your life who-”

“Yeah, I know what they are. I just didn't think you knew.”

“Okay, well, I'm a slow learner.”

“No, you're just a stubborn one. Lemme check the catalog. Sit down or something; you're making me nervous.”

Mrs. Renault disappears into the card catalog area and Kenny leans against the counter, tries to compartmentalize. Lunch with her father. Lunch with her father to discuss a delicate matter. What could that be besides her involvement in the Dora Lange case? Kenny makes a mental note to leave the book in the car when she gets to the restaurant, if she gets the book at all.

A friend.

Kenny always fell too hard to fast into everything. Never one foot in at a time. She always either swore to never cross a threshold or she threw herself in entirely and there was no in between. And it wasn't just romantic relationships, either. There have been friendships she feels as though she ruined because she was a bit too “much”. Cared too much? Was willing to do too much? Not even in a self-congratulatory sort of way, either. Kenny didn't ever think it was a good thing. It scared her.

And suddenly, she's very scared of getting this book, because what can that open other doors to? What else will she stupidly volunteer for, or, god forbid, ask for?

“Honey?”

Kenny jumps at the sound of Mrs. Renault behind her.

“Sorry. Lost in thought. Where's the book?”

Mrs. Renault looks at a card in her hand and sighs. “Pulled from circulation. Follow me.”

Kenny does, moving behind the circulation desk.

“We have a copy. The King in Yellow by Robert W. Chambers. Horror fiction- right up your alley.”

Kenny doesn't respond to that particular point simply because it's true.

“Why was it pulled?” She asks, and realizes that the path Mrs. Renault takes is leading them to the archive room.

“It's a very old copy, falling apart, and no one was checking it out. Nothing too exciting.”

Which is for the best, Kenny thinks. They arrive at the archive room and Mrs. Renault unlocks the door. The room is temperature controlled, so it's cooler in here, and dry. Mrs. Renault consults the card in her hand and scans a bookshelf until she comes across the tome. She carefully pulls it and sets it on a table in the center of the room.

“1955. Originally punished in 1895- a hundred years old this year.”

It's a paperback, yellow and brown by both coloring and age. Under the title, a man's long and borderless face watches Kenny with smoldering embers for eyes.

“What are the chances you let me check this out?” Kenny mumbles, carefully tracing her fingers over the title on the cover.

“You got your library card?”

-

Despite knowing him for her entire life, Kenny will never understand why her father insists on sitting outside of a restaurant on hot days when it is perfectly well and air conditioned inside. They both sweat like pigs and it makes the entire experience worse. If Kenny were any more selfishly paranoid, she’d think he is doing it just to spite her, because now she has to take her sweater off for the whole world to see, leaving her in the white, thin-strapped dress.

Maybe it's a bit backwards for some, but Kenny doesn't mind showing bare skin when she's on the job because there's a social contract not to judge someone for the way they look, the things about themselves they can't change, in a professional setting. But socially, at lunch, outside of a restaurant, there are no rules. There's no social contract here, so anyone who wants to can stare. Kenny puts on her sunglasses so there's a barrier between herself and any prying eyes.

“What're you gonna get?” Her father asks from behind his menu. Kenny has her arms crossed, her legs crossed and bouncing, and she's looking out onto the road.

“Probably the same thing I've gotten for the past twenty years, dad. What about you?”

Despite her obvious displeasure, Charlie Marsden laughs.

“Probably also the same thing I've gotten for the past twenty years.”

Not too long a silence before their waitress approaches for their drink orders.

“I'll have an Arnold Palmer please, Sugar,” Charlie says.

“Water for me, thanks.”

The waitress leaves. Charlie eyes his daughter as she continues to stare at the road.

“What a responsible choice,” he remarks.

“Well, I don't think they're doing doubles of liquor yet.”

“I meant that I only ever see you drinking those diet Cokes.”

“Yeah, but you don't really “ever see” me. You don't have a very large sample size.”

Charlie clears his throat and adjusts his position in his chair.

“Kenny, I’m not sure-”

“So what’s this ‘delicate matter’ you needed to talk to me about?”

Regardless of whether or not Charlie was about broach the topic, Kenny wants to be the one to drive the conversation. The waitress brings their drinks, they order their food, they take greedy gulps of their water and Arnold Palmer, and they begin.

“I read your article.”

“And?”

“Good to know there's still a point to funding public universities.”

Kenny scoffs quietly. “That's nice.”

“Billy Lee Tuttle called me.”

Kenny taps the side of her glass. “Yeah.”

“Asked if he'd be steppin on any toes by goin to the CID.”

Kenny’s face screws like she just tasted something sour. “And did you tell him ‘no’, or did he just not care?”

Charlie sips his drink and chews on a piece of ice. “Nah, Quesada plays ball.”

“I'm not talking about Quesada,” Kenny says pointedly.

“Right…those two detectives. You’ve been spending an awful lot of time at the CID.”

“If by ‘a lot’ you mean, ‘twice before the article got published’, and even that was as a courtesy, then yeah.”

“You berated them in the parking lot, I hear.”

“Yeah, well, no one's ever gone under the impression I was polite.”

“You went to dinner at Marty Hart's house.”

Dread drips through Kenny’s veins and she leans across the table to hiss her next words, so as not to attract attention. “You having me fucking followed?”

Charlie shakes his head as though it's casual. “Cops round here have loose lips, word gets around. What's that other one's name?”

“Rustin Cohle,” Kenny says begrudgingly.

“He's not too popular.”

“Thank God law enforcement ain't a popularity contest,” Kenny bites, waits for engagement. When she doesn't get it, she squints. “What.”

“How much you know about him?”

Slowly, it dawns on Kenny that Charlie is making an assumption about her. A correct assumption. A dangerous one for both her and Rust. She grimaces and sits back in her chair, crosses her arms.

“Oh, fuck you.”

“He's got files I can't access.”

“That's cause you're a commissioner and not J Edgar Hoover.”

“I just think you need to be careful.”

It's at this point that Kenny decides she's finished. She reaches into her purse, grabs a crumbled handful of bills and slams them on the table, and stands.

“Dad, I spent my whole life around cops. I know how to spot the bad ones.”

She turns to leave. Charlie speaks.

“I heard about Marie. I’m sorry.”

Kenny's blood freezes. She hardly looks over her shoulder.

“Yeah. Well, if there’s one thing to be said about this family, it’s how fucking sorry we are.”

A pause.

“I want you to stay away from him.”

Kenny doesn't respond because she can't. Instead, she holds on tighter to her purse. She walks across the street, getting honked at for her jaywalking. Locks herself in her car and bemoans not being able to scream.

-

Kenny doesn’t see or hear from Marty or Rust for two days. They’re properly busy and she should be as well. She does menial write ups and digs tentatively for updated information about Dora Lange, to no avail. But mostly, she reads. At home, she curls onto her couch and cracks open the ancient copy of The King in Yellow.

At first, it's nothing particularly impressive. Thin pages of a cursed story and a place called Carcosa. Lost Carcosa. Dim Carcosa. Where the black star rises.

It doesn't mean anything, at first. Then, one night, Kenny wakes screaming. It isn't entirely clear why until later, once she's had some warm whiskey and sits on her porch with Froggy's head in her lap. In her head, Rust had been laying in a lake of blood, with an eclipsed sun, a black star, hanging over him. Dim Carcosa. It had made her sick.

And yet, she continued to read, and usually fell asleep doing so on her couch.

Three days after her searching had begun, in the orange evening, Kenny feels a large hand gentle on her shoulder. She's only half asleep now, but gone enough to have no idea who this can possibly be. She almost thinks she's dreaming again when she sees Rust's serious face searching hers.

“Hell, I gotta be dreaming,” she jokes, but there's no smile from Rust. He takes a finger and brushes a stray curl from her face.

“You left your door open.”

“Hm?” Kenny sits up a little and sees that her front door is open and the screen door is the only barrier between herself and the rest of the world. “Oh, yeah. I didn't fall asleep on purpose. I got that book-” She looks around for it on the couch but it's not there.

“Kenny, there's a murderer-”

“Oh.” It's on the coffee table. She picks it up and hands it to Rust. A yawn overtakes her and she stretches while Rust looks between her face and the book cover. “I haven't gotten very far into it. I've been…busy…” She lies. She hasn't gotten very far into it because making herself read it has become more and more of a task.

And Rust is quiet. He's tapping the book against his hand, staring into Kenny's back hall. It sends pinpricks along the back of her neck.

“Hey, what is it?”

Kenny places a careful hand on Rust's cheek and he flinches, takes in a sharp breath and blinks away some vision of Kenny doesn't even want to know what. She draws away quickly. Rust clears his throat, looks away at the coffee table.

“Listen, I'm gonna have to go away for a while.”

Kenny's shoulders drop, curl in.

No, no no no no.

“Oh. Uh, can you tell me why?”

“No really.”

“Okay. Can you at least tell me if it's related to the case?”

“It is.”

“Will Marty be with you?”

Rust nods.

It has to be something outside of her. It can't be her, she hasn't done anything. They've hardly done anything.

“What happened out there? What did you find?”

Rust works his jaw back and forth, moves something invisible between his fingers.

“We're getting closer,” he says finally, though it's not an answer. “This might be the final push.”

Kenny tries for humor, which she knows is a bad idea right after she opens her mouth.

“If you don't tell me, I'll just have to figure it out for myself.”

Rust's eyes snap to hers. They're bloodshot. She hadn't noticed before. “Don't. Don't you dare.”

Quick as a flash, Kenny sees herself, much younger, seventeen, after her first suicide attempt- the only public one and the only one that had landed her in a hospital.

Don't you dare ever do this again. It ain't who we are. It ain't what your momma woulda wanted. Don't you dare.

The words get twisted and confusing and Kenny feels her proverbial heckles raising. She clusmily pushes her way off the couch. A hand goes to her mouth and she bites into the side of her finger, grounds herself stuck onto one spot, and zeroes in on the kitchen. There's a coffee stain on the counter. It's been there for months. She cleans around it, just to see how long it will last before it disappears.

Kenny starts to hum low to herself because the coffee stain becomes something impossible. No one is ever going to clean it. If she disappears tomorrow, and they come to her house, what will they think?

She wants to get rid of it, but she can't move.

“I think you need to leave this alone,” Rust says from the couch. His voice goes like rushing water over Kenny's ears.

You're not good enough.

Did he see something that reminded him of her?

“I thought you understood.”

“I do. That's why I'm saying it.”

“No. If you're gonna be scared, go do it somewhere else. If you're not gonna share it with me then I don't wanna hear it.”

It's because she knows nothing about him. She doesn't know about his family, who he was before Texas. She only knows the word crushing tragedy he suffered and the fact that he's here now. Kenny gets the horrible feeling in the back of her head that something bad is going to happen but she doesn't know how to say it.

“Can't it be enough that I'm here, and I'm telling you?”

Kenny can feel herself shaking, shaking like there's bombs overhead and she hasn't blinked in over a minute and she knows this because the tears are falling on their own.

Oh god, oh god. They're all going to die. The world is ending. Doesn't he see it?

She wants to tell him yes, that it is enough, but everything is so fast. They don't have time to cradle each other like that. If they're going to be kind, then they have to be mean, too. And she can't be mean right now. And she still can't move.

Rust gets up. Waits. Kenny jerks at his movement but is unchanged otherwise.

Her floor creaks but it's in the wrong direction. He heads for the door. It groans open.

“Thank you for finding the book.”

God, if she could throw something, she would. Instead, she waits for the screen door to slam itself shut and when it does, she still doesn't move. She waits for the sound of the truck engine and then the gravel being spun. Once that happens, once she's alone, then she breaks. Goes to her church of a room and prays for any one of those dead girls and women to tell her that it isn't her, it isn't her. But there's no reply, and she'd given up talking to god a long time ago.

It's like moving through a haze, a clear haze but with no time or memory. She might have gone into the bathroom and taken a dry sponge and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed at her skin to remove whatever it was about her that the universe both made her to be and seemed to detest so much. That was the real death, wasn't it? That she was made so imperfect and then they all had to suffer for it, didn't they?

She strips down to her underwear and grabs a bottle of some sort of alcohol and walks barefoot into the field across from her house. Doesn't notice that the final devil trap is gone; it's been gone for well over a day. Froggy barks at her from inside the house but mostly she just listens to the crickets in the tall grass. The sun is almost gone. She wonders how long she can walk until something happens. She's tempted to find out. She keeps walking, turns around and sees that her house has become no larger than her thumb. Takes a swig of whatever she grabbed.

There's a thud, a sickening crunch, and pain explodes behind her eyes. Kenny falls and the grass parts around her like waves. Something grabs her foot and as her vision blurs, she sees the sky moving above her.

Ah, what she had expected. What she had deserved, perhaps. Her last thought before passing out is about how goddamn funny it all is.